Anchored in you

Chapter 57: The Zero-Knowledge Variable

In my line of work, I deal with anomalies. When a packet of data behaves unpredictably, you isolate it. When a competitor moves into your territory, you analyze their trajectory. I am a man who maps the world in certainties, and for the last few months, my world had been the most stable it had ever been. Samaira and I were operating at peak synchronization-the laughter from our "prank wars" still echoing in the hallways, the heat from our weekend in the Nilgiris still a lingering hum in our veins.

We were at a high-end lifestyle mall in Nungambakkam, a rare Saturday excursion where I had promised to be the "patient husband" while she hunted for a specific shade of raw silk for an upcoming exhibition. I was leaning against a mahogany pillar near a boutique, watching her move. The way she handled fabric-with a mix of professional scrutiny and tactile appreciation-always fascinated me. She looked radiant, her skin glowing, her green-and-gold saree a masterpiece of quiet elegance.

Then, I saw him.

A man was standing near the fountain, maybe thirty yards away. He wasn't browsing. He wasn't looking at his phone. He was staring at Samaira. And it wasn't the casual, appreciative glance a woman like her frequently attracts. It was a fixed, intense, knowing gaze.

My internal alarm system-the one I'd sharpened after the Rohan debacle-screamed in a high, piercing frequency. I felt the familiar tightening in my jaw, the "Formidable Predator" shifting from standby to active. I began to calculate the distance, preparing the cold, soul-crushing glare that usually sent people scurrying in the opposite direction.

But before I could deploy the "CEO Glare," the man moved. He didn't look away. He started walking toward us, a slow, confident stride.

"Samaira?" he called out, his voice a clear, resonant tenor that cut through the mall's ambient noise.

Samaira turned, her hand still resting on a roll of silk. Her eyes widened, her lips parting in a gasp of genuine, unadulterated shock.

"Arjun?" she whispered.

And then, before I could process the data, she moved. She didn't just greet him; she practically flew. She bypassed me entirely and threw her arms around him in a tight, exuberant hug.

The sound I made in my throat was purely primal.

I stood there, three feet away, feeling like an obsolete piece of hardware. I watched as this stranger-this Arjun-wrapped his arms around my wife, lifting her slightly off the ground. They were laughing, a frantic, overlapping conversation of "How?" and "When?" and "I can't believe it's you!"

I stepped into the circle of their energy, my face a mask of polite, glacial curiosity.

"Sami?" I said, my voice low.

She pulled back, her face flushed with a joy I hadn't seen since our wedding day. "Harish! Oh my god, you won't believe this. This is Arjun! My childhood best friend. Our families were neighbors in Kumbakonam before he moved to the UK for boarding school. Arjun, this is Harish. My husband."

Arjun turned to me. He was tall-nearly as tall as I was-with an easy, athletic build and eyes that looked like they'd seen a lot more of the world than a standard "childhood friend." He offered a hand, his grip firm and dry.

"Harish. A pleasure," he said. "I've heard... well, I've heard you're a man who knows how to protect what's his."

The remark was subtle, but I caught the edge. Was it a compliment or a warning?

"I try," I replied, my voice clipping the end of the word. "Childhood friend, you say? Funny, Samaira, I don't recall his name coming up in our 'Legacy Data' discussions."

"We lost touch after he moved, Harish," Samaira said, her hand still resting on Arjun's forearm. The touch burned me. "He was my first ever friend. The one who taught me how to climb the mango trees in the backyard."

"And the one who had to pull her down when she got stuck," Arjun added, a wink directed solely at her.

The jealousy was a living thing in my chest now-a hot, acidic pressure. I hated the ease between them. I hated the shared history I couldn't access. I hated that he knew a version of her-the "Kumbakonam Sami"-that I would never truly know.

"You should come over for tea," Samaira said, her eyes bright. "We have so much to catch up on. Doesn't he, Harish?"

"Of course," I said, my "CEO mask" firmly in place. "We'd love to have you. Whenever you're free."

Arjun looked at me, his gaze calculating. He saw the tension in my shoulders; he saw the way I had shifted to stand slightly in front of Samaira. He smiled-a slow, knowing smile that made me want to initiate a hostile takeover of his entire existence.

"Tea sounds lovely," he said reluctantly. "I'll text you, Sami. I still have the old number."

The drive home was quiet. Samaira was humming, her head resting against the window, clearly lost in a nostalgic fog. I, however, was in "Full Investigative Mode."

The moment we entered the apartment and she went to change, I retreated to my study. I opened my encrypted terminal. I am Harish Kesavan. I have back-door access to databases that most people don't even know exist. If Arjun was a person of interest, I would find his digital footprint in seconds.

I ran the name: Arjun Siddharth. Keywords: Kumbakonam, UK, boarding school, Textiles, London.

Nothing.

I tried facial recognition from the mall's security feed (don't ask how I got it). Zero matches.

I checked professional networks, social media, immigration records. It was as if the man had dropped out of the sky. No LinkedIn profile. No Instagram. No "Top 40 under 40." In an age where everyone leaves a digital trail, Arjun Siddharth was a ghost.

A man with no digital footprint is either a luddite or someone who knows exactly how to hide. And looking at Arjun's expensive watch and the way he carried himself, he wasn't a luddite.

By 11:00 PM, I was pacing the study, the lack of data making my skin crawl. In my world, no data meant a hidden threat.

Samaira walked in, wearing that emerald silk slip from the weekend before. She looked at me, her brow furrowing. "Harish? Why are you still up? And why do you look like you're preparing for a cyber-war?"

"Just... some server maintenance, Sami," I lied, closing the laptop. "Tell me more about this Arjun. What did his father do? Why did he move?"

She sat on the edge of my desk, her legs swinging. "His father was an architect. They moved to London when we were twelve. He was my world back then, Harish. Before my life became about grades and consulting. He was the only person who knew the 'real me' before I became 'Samaira Kesavan'."

I walked over to her, pulling her into my arms, my touch more possessive than usual. "And what does he do now?"

"He didn't say. Something in 'International Logistics,' I think. Why all the questions?" She looked up at me, a playful smirk touching her lips. "Is the formidable CEO... jealous?"

"I don't get jealous, Samaira. I get informed," I said, kissing her neck with an intensity that made her gasp.

But as I held her, my mind was still spinning. Arjun Siddharth. A zero-knowledge variable. A man who hugged my wife like he owned her past. A man who didn't exist on the grid.

The tea was set for next Sunday. I had seven days to find out who he was. And if I couldn't find the data, I would have to create a situation where he had no choice but to reveal it.

The "Home Project" was secure from relatives, but a ghost from the past had just bypassed the firewall. And I wasn't going to sleep until I found the source code.